One thousand and one - English version
by LilyIsMilesAway
Summary: Sherlock isn't one for Valentine's Day. But, for Molly, he's willing to try... Prompt by MorbidByDefault.  English version of the fic by the same title.


**This is a Valentine's Day prompt I did for the awesome MorbidByDefault.**

**I wrote it in French at first and, at last, feel audacious enough to publish it in English. So, sorry for the mistakes I missed.**

**Disclamer : Nothing is mine, except the bad English.**

* * *

"So Sherlock, what have you planned for tonight?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope with a questioning look, scrutinising his friend who was getting ready to go God only knows where – Well… God and him, if he bothered… John came closer while adjusting his scarf. With the disenchanting and slight moralistic look he used when it came to explain anything to his genius flatmate, he continued: "It's Valentine's Day today. Do you have anything planned for Molly?" In the absence of reaction from his friend he sighted. "Seriously, Sherlock! This woman is a saint! She puts up with your bad temper all year around. You might be the only consulting detective in the world but you're also the least romantic boyfriend on earth!"

His friend still indifferent to his, his eyes back to his microscope without saying a word, he left. He had a lot to do, a dinner to prepare, which could seal his destiny with that pretty teacher who had literally save his life when he was at his lowest two years ago. First, the florist!

In the course of the morning, the idea mad its way in the detective's mind. Did Molly expect him to do something? He leaned back on his chair, at the edge of balance, his hand in a prayer-like position. She definitely had a think for the colour pink. The time he was in her flat, after being injured by one of Moriarty's men, when he was hiding, he had the opportunity to inspect her bookcase. "Women's novels" were mixed with pathology textbooks and crime novels. Her DVD collection demonstrated an undeniable interest in romantic comedies. Around three o'clock, he was leaning in front of his computer feverishly, seeking a way to save the evening. John Watson, his moral compass and reluctant sentimental guide, had not responded to any of his texts. Come on! Molly…

Molly. Molly. Molly. His sweet, discreet, understanding, meticulous, attentive, efficient Molly. What does she expect from this day? Definitely nothing common, she was in love with him after all! But all this books and DVDs, those absolutely unbearable series she forced him to watch sometimes… Fortunately for his mental health, in exchange, after that, they would go for a walk and she would let him tell all the cutting remarks he could find against the passers-by. She would listen, enjoying the breeze or the sun's warmth, holding his arm. He knew it was incompatible with her fundamentally kind nature. Nothing was sweeter to his ears than that little laughter she would sometimes let slip when he went a little too far. When they were at 221B, a bag of toes or a pancreas would be waiting for him in the freezer, or better yet, he would continue in the bedroom his investigations on the skin's sensitivity he had started on the couch, if the episode was particularly terrible that day.

Exasperated he closed de the computer in a snap, grabbed his coat and scarf and ran down the stairs. He made a brief stop at Mrs Hudson's. Considering her criminal husband and her charming polygamous neighbour, perhaps, she wasn't the first person to go, but isn't it said that, in the kingdom of the blinds, the one-eyed man is king? And he could always say it was John's fault. He refused to help him by ignoring his texts. A quarter of an hour later, he left the building, turned his collar up and hailed a cab.

* * *

He walked the aisles of the shopping center as quickly as he could, grumbling about over agitated children, overzealous shop assistants and elderly who were far to slow. Fortunately, he just needed one more thing and he could put his plan into action.

In the shop, he took the items he sought and went to the cashier. The last of a queue far too long for his liking, he stamped, resigning himself to observe the people who preceded him. The first one should have chosen the red one. The other one shouldn't try so hard, his wife was cheating on him with their eldest son's t violin teacher… No, the second son. "Oh no! She's allergic!" He refrained himself from yelling to the last one.

Once his shopping completed, he left the wall, letting a long sight go. Molly would definitely be proud of him. He accomplished his task without anyone crying, insulting him or threatening to call the police. One gesture and a cab pulled up next to him. He stuffed his bags and then climbed inside. Seriously, how can ordinary people do that? Shopping was tedious and frankly ungratifying. He couldn't keep his finger from drumming on his knees, drawing the cabbie's attention. "You forgot it was Valentine's Day, uh? And you don't want to sleep on the couch! ... Hey hey hey! Pfff… Anyway, those women… They're never happy! You could take the stars out of the sky for them… Wouldn't be enough! They're funny… They're the ones who want to celebrate and we have to do all the work!" Sherlock winced, doing all he could not to punch this man. He was irritated enough. And the gentlemen grammar was doing nothing to help! "I've found the trick. Each year, I bring her to the restaurant, the one where we went for our first date. It's easy, cheap and she finds it romantic."

He tried to concentrate on the street. His fists clenched on his knees, so much his knuckles were white. He was already struggling to get the significance of this celebration. However hard he tried to understand, that didn't make any sense. Even Christmas didn't make much sense for him. But, intellectually, he understood how important family could be to people with sentiments. John had spent enough time trying to explain it to him. But for Molly, he was willing to make the effort. Molly deserved so much more than what he was giving to her. Every day he feared that she would shut the laboratory's door, even worse, her own door. Every day he wondered how she was able to bear him, when he often didn't tolerate himself. All these days that he felt his mind literally putrefy because no criminal had the decency to commit any crime.

Everybody had made clear to him that he was a git, foreign to any human emotion, after all. A freak. Why Molly should see things differently? Because, as John said: she was the only one able to calm him when his fury reached new heights. Only she appeases him with one touch, even if the slightest physical contact would have the effect of a burn, which would make him even more nervous. She would discreetly put her and on his forearm. Or when the situation would allow it, she would take him in her arms, and the raging cacophony in his head would vanish. Even tough he never stood still, unless he was in his Mind Palace (and, in that case, it was a total effervescence in this head), he could spend hours lying on the lap of the pathologist, who would stroke his hair. How could someone so small hold so much power! All the reason in the World could come to solve this puzzle.

He seriously wondered how the Sherlock from before the Fall would have react if he had been told all of that. But today, he must face the facts: Molly was indispensable to him, not only professionally (There was no pathologist more competent (and more accommodating) in the UK), but also for his personal balance. And what does he bring to her? Some sort of physical satisfaction? But the body is only transport… Well… Almost, added this little voice that had appeared and became stronger each time Molly would draw him in the bedroom with a mischievous smile. But this is clearly not enough! So, on this 14th of February, he would force himself and bring her this touch of romance she wanted but never dared to ask.

Before he realised it, the taxi stopped. Once he paid, the cabbie wished him good luck and gave him a wink, happy to have found a fellow. It gave him nausea. Unromantic as he was, he would never reach the same level as this man, who was wallowing in his contentment and… He shook his head. Molly. It was Molly's night! Only she counted tonight. He went up as fast as he could, considering his charge, took the key in his pocket as best as he could and put it into the lock.

* * *

At the second the entered the flat, the cat rushed into his feet, making him almost fall over. He pits is bags on the table and started to unpack. Mrs Hudson had assured him: there was nothing more romantic than a homemade dinner. And since he didn't know what were John's plans, he wouldn't take the risk to embarrass either of them. Choosing Molly's flat was wiser. And, as Hudson had added, the surprise would achieve to seduce her. Definitely! She even gave a recipe out of an old French Cuisine book. It's a sure thing! He had some doubt but hoped she would at least appreciate the effort.

He had to hurry; she would come home in less than an hour. Cooking wasn't really one of his best competences; it was not compatible with his diet. And Mrs Hudson was always so helpful! But he had seen enough of those cooking shows on the telly, on those evenings where Molly was too tired for anything even vaguely intellectual. She would be lying against his chest, her arms around his waist, and she would fall asleep within the first quart of an hour. Inevitably the remote control would be on the coffee table and waking her was heartbreaking. And if, by any chance, the remote control was at hand, she would wake up immediately, saying she was watching and it was really rude of him to change the program. He was condemned to watch it, trying to make it a little more interesting by deducing with which one of the little redhead or the tall blond, the presenter was cheating on his wife, an actress in this atrocious soap, who was drowning her marriage's failure in gin.

While the meal was simmering promisingly, he tried his hand at the art of table dressing, with some success, naturally. As critical as John could be, he had a sense of aesthetic and this table, he was sure of it, would rejoice Molly. He could still hear Mrs Hudson saying in an awfully perky voice: "A candlelit dinner is always romantic! It will immediately put her in the mood! ..."

He was in the kitchen checking on the meal when he heard footsteps in the hall. He froze for a second, took a deep breath, ready to turn around and great her with his most charming smile at he second she passes the door.

But saucer eyes, jaws on the floor, or any cartoon cliché he had expected, had nothing to do with the little thing huddled in her coat standing in front of him. The eyes he was foreseeing between a cap and a scarf were more glowing of fatigue than wonder. And worse, the bag she was carrying was from that Chinese place of her street's corner. That meant she was too tired to go to that other place three blocks away, even if this one was positively awful. "Oh, Sherlock…" he thought he heard but the sound was so weak he could just as well have been dreaming.

He rushed to her, took her bag and coat and made her sit at the table. "I'm sorry, she whispered, I didn't know. If I knew, I wouldn't…" Oh, Molly. She was the only one who could be sorry for not being able to anticipate a surprise. On Valentine's Day. With him as her partner. "I'm sorry, she repeated, but I really didn't think we were doing anything special tonight. I mean… You're… You are Sherlock Holmes. You don't do romance and I…  
– But you, you want the romance, isn't it? I want to give you this. If I don't do it now, when? You deserve so much more than I give you. I don't even know…  
– Oh, Sherlock…"

She seemed to have shrunk more, if it was even possible.

Disappointed, he sat down on the couch, passing nervously his hands through his hair. She got up and sat beside him, clasping his hands in hers. Once again, he was fascinated by the fact that such small hands could seem larger and stronger than his. "I don't believe in Valentine's Day. I mean, I did before, she said as if she spoke about Father Christmas. But over the years I've seen people who respected the tradition tear each other apart with the same force, if not more than the ones who didn't. I mean… If you really love someone, why do you need a date to remind it to you? Why buying the same red roses, the same card, and the same chocolates to go to the same restaurant, to tell the same lies than a thousand other couples? Does that really make sense when everything is uniform? Are we all robots? There are people who say the same about Christmas. But Christmas is different. It's putting five, ten people, sometimes more, who live in different cities, if not in different countries, together. It's the only one day in the year we say to the World: Stop, I take care of my family, too bad for your late file. And I can say to you that, now that my father is dead, that I have no-one, I know how important it is."

He haven't yet dare to look up, his eyes fixes on her little hands in his. As she spoke, he sat up straight, but couldn't bring himself to Watch her. "Sherlock, I don't want red roses, cards, and candlelit dinners. I know who you are. If you do that, it's because you feel forced, it will not be sincere. I want… I want you to text me that you think of me because this girl in the restaurant is holding her fork the same way I do, while on a case in Timbuktu, I want you to tell me that you like my lipstick (But not that my mouth would look to small without it), I want you to watch this horrible crime show without being jealous, because the diameter of my pupils is changing whenever the hero appears, and to mock this show with me because it absolutely not realistic. And whenever you're on hundred percent happy, without any cloud in the sky, I want you to tell me that you love me. I know you can do it, you already did. Because if your happy, it will also be the case for me. » He finally got the courage to look into her eyes, he placed his hands on both sides of her dishevelled face and he kissed her with all the ardour he was capable of.

Once the kiss broken, he suggested: "What if we do justice to this meal because everything is ready. It would be a shame to spoil it. And Chinese is always better the next day." She started to stand up but he stopped her. "No, stay here, this heinous cooking show is about to start. " The telly was on and Molly comfortably settled when he came back with to delightfully smelling plates. He definitely had to thank Mrs Hudson.

It didn't take long after they had finish for the pathologist's eyes to close. He cast a desperate glace to the remote control, there, so far away… Before kissing lightly the woman on the neck, whispering an « I love you » in her ear.

Oh! It seems that the Scottish candidate is smoking again!


End file.
